Clarabelle Conquers

Hello hello! Princess Whitney has just returned from skiing in the Alps for the weekend, and it was certainly a magical experience. Being the clever clever girl that I am, I forgot to charge my camera battery before I went, so I just have a handful of pictures-- but luckily my skiing buddy took plenty so I promise to share them all (plus the stories that accompany them) as soon as I can steal them off of facebook.

In other related news, I am currently working on a midterm assignment for one of my literature classes. The prompt? "Man can be destroyed, but not defeated." Naturally, I immediately thought of my recent experiences on the ski slopes. And luckily for you, my blog-reading-public, I now present to you the story of Saturday morning, poem-style.

Clarabelle Conquers

An overbundled and discouraged giant
in swishing snowpants and stiff boots,
Clarabelle tried not to feel
completely
and
utterly
inadequate
as tiny Swiss babies in tiny skis
giggled joyously, waved at proud parents,
and zoomed past her down the ice-covered hill.

The looming leviathan of the bunny slope
whispered a silent prayer
to the patron saint of
not
embarrassing
yourself
again
in front of Hans the ski instructor
who has the patience of a saint, dimples,
polarized goggles, and an adorable Swiss accent.

Clarabelle held her breath, shut her eyes,
pointed her skis down the hill,
and thought positively:
I
can
do
it!
she repeated to herself
as she imagined skidding to a triumphant halt,
spraying powder into the air at the end of the slope.

Much too late, Clarabelle stopped imagining
the snow-covered Hans cheering proudly
and started to see instead
how
very
very
fast
she was flying down the slope,
too fast even to notice the wide eyes
and chubby Swiss-baby fingers pointing at her.

She released her poles and whimpered,
wildly flapped her arms,
and gutturally cried:
Wha
Yeargh
Blahack
Nao!
"Wedge! Wedge!" Hans cried in vain,
making wild giant triangles with his arms
and wishing he had qualified for this year's semi-finals.

Clarabelle, however, managed to create
no such triangles with her skis.
"Abort mission!" she cried:
Curling
into
a
ball,
she thunkity-thunked down the hill,
snow spraying all around her as she rolled,
and finally deposited herself neatly at Hans' feet.

Removing the snowy deposits from her nostrils
and wiping her mouth, she looked up
at Hans' dimples as he said:
Zat
vas
ferry
good!
Clarabelle beamed,
fetched her abandoned poles, and marched
in stiff boots and swishing snowpants back to the lift.

It's-a Me, Mario!

Once upon a time, 

Five girls moved into an apartment together in Vienna.  Although they were able to subside on Nutella and Nutella alone for a couple (okay, like ten) days, soon their bodies began to protest.  "Give us something that isn't made out of hazlenuts!" their stomachs screamed.  "Something!  Anything!"  

"But we're too tired to cook, and going out is so expensive," the girls countered.  

Luckily, Nina the R.A. stepped in with a brilliant suggestion.  "There's a pizza place just up the street, girls," she said.  "Mario is really nice and he will make friends with you... plus, it's cheap!"  

A stranger who would actually talk to us?  Cheap food?  Better yet, cheap PIZZA?!  We scrambled wildly to pull on our boots and coats, tore down the stairs, and made the approximate 30-second hike to our destination: Pizzeria Vesuvio da Mario.

As you may see from the outside, Mario's is decorated quite festively.  And if you think the outside is beautiful... well, you obviously haven't been inside.  

Mario is a rebel among Italian restaurant owners by straying far from the "rustic Tuscany" theme.  The empty wine bottles with candles in them, loaves of fake bread in wicker baskets, accordion music, and fake oil paintings are nowhere to be found at Mario's.  Rather, the decor is delightfully varied and full of surprises.  

Our usual spot-- in the corner right by the big pizza oven-- is one of those nice, cozy, sticky black vinyl booths pushed up against a tableclothed table.  Fancy!  Our table is always beautifully decorated with a Christmas-red taper candle, lit by Mario himself whenever he comes to take our order, and flanked on either side with ridiculous fake red and white poinsettias dusted with gold glitter.  

The walls are covered in beautiful artwork: scenery that was ripped from last month's calendar page, creepy posters of clowns, contact paper cut into the shape of Roman architecture... but the best part is the coastal-themed decorations that pop up among the rest of the madness.  There is a fishing net filled with fake seashells and starfish on the ceiling, and LOBSTERS LOBSTERS everywhere!  There are big red plastic 3-D lobsters stuck all over the wall.  No one is sure why, but we certainly do love them.  

As beautiful as the restaurant is, nothing compares to Mario himself.  

Mario has a great mustache, wears sweater vests every day, and tells everyone he's Italian.  We, on the other hand, are pretty positive that he's Turkish and his name is Ahmed or something.  But we let him pretend, and so he says things like "Prego!" and hums "'A Vucchella" while he throws pizza dough up in the air. 

He is one of the most hospitable people we've met here (he obviously cherishes our friendship, not the fact that we show up at his doorstep at least once, often twice, a week) and treats us well whenever we come in.  We always get kisses on both cheeks, free shots that taste like Robutussin, and a plea to "come back and make with your friends a big party" in the always-empty party room.

Mario even has an apartment above the restaurant that he rents out short-term for way cheaper than a hotel, so my mom is going to (bravely!) stay there when she comes in March.  I took a tour the other day, and it is exactly what I was expecting from a decorator like Mario.  Think posters of baby animals, Jesus, and sand-covered beach babes hanging above Asian-fusion inspired furniture and bedspreads straight off of the set of Full House.  

Mario also has a killer Web site with a picture gallery where you can see some of his photo ops with various guests.  All of this typing about Mario's has made me terribly hungry, so until next time-- I leave you with this link.  Ciao!

Super-Schnee

So, it's been snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing

 

and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing

and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing

so we made a snowman

 

named Bernard

 

but then it kept snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and snowing and now Bernard looks like

this.

I'm Actually A Princess, Part II

I hope you guys still like me when I come home, because I am starting to think this whole "I'm-a-princess" thing is actually real.  Vienna is spoiling me rotten and I am quite receptive to it.

So here's the story of my latest royal adventure: Friday night we decided to go ice skating.  Of course, not just any old ice skating rink would do.  Instead, we went to the aptly-named "WIENER EISTRAUM 2009" in front of the Rathaus-- literally, the Viennese Ice-Dream.  Sounds promising, no?  

Let's just say if I had my way, I would have named it the Wiener Awesome Fantastic Sherbert Pony Sparkle Magic Candy Fantasy Bubbles Fairy Unicorn Twinkling Fireworks Popsicle Giggle Love Fest Palooza 2009.  And here's why:

Fantastic, no?  I've always maintained that I was a deprived child because I've never been to Disney World, but now I'm not so sure.  I kind of feel like Cinderella's castle is just okay in comparison.  Anyway, it was just magical.  There were loudspeakers playing ABBA and Grease and Lionel Richie, just the lightest snow falling from the sky, and little booths selling piping hot cider and punch.  

The best part, though, is that it's not just a circular rink.  Instead, there are ice-covered pathways leading off the rink and all over the lawn so you can take romantic little turns about the park.  It's much more exciting than regular ice skating!  See?

Anyway, it was certainly a lovely night.  The sad news is that I still have to go to school and wait for the streetcar in the cold (it's been frrrrrrreezing here) since apparently I'm not a real princess.  But sometimes it's just hard to remember.  

I guess that's all for now.  Thanks for all the Valentine's wishes, by the way.  I love you!

-Princess Whit

Hee hee.

Die Kinder

Okay, I know I talk about how stinking cute the little kids are all over Europe, and I really am just going to have to start taking clandestine snapshots so you'll know what I mean.  But until then, bear with this description of THE HAPPIEST PART OF MY DAY.  Oh my gosh, it was so great.

I was on the U-Bahn going home from my German class mid-morning.  When the subway makes its first stop, I look out on the platform and see a looooong line of tiny, bundled-up ADORABLE kids standing with two teachers.  As the doors open, my heart leaps as they start filing into my car.  The teachers strategically place them four-deep on the seats meant for two, and they sit wide-eyed with their legs sticking straight out in front of them, bundled in their little striped scarves and tights and puffy jackets and little wool hats with ear flaps.

The ones who don't get seats stand clutching the poles and each others' hands, chatting in adorable little-kid-German as they wait for the train to start.  And then, when the doors finally close and the train leaves the platform, they let out this darling little chorus of delighted surprise.  "Whoaaaaaaauuuuuuwheeeeeeeee!"  Giggle giggle giggle.  

Needless to say, I giggled too.  It was so great and I have been positively walking on clouds since then.  Eeeeee

On Tapa The World.

Now that's a good blog title.  Oh man.  I am funny.

Anyway, it's time for part two of Whitney's Whirlwind Adventure!  After adieuing Mike & co. in Bordeaux, I hopped on a train or three and made my way slowly but surely down to Barcelona.  I was getting a little tired of being a lone traveller, so imagine my great joy when I ran into the arms of these lovely ladies in the train station!  

Nikki, of course, is my Wiener-in-crime, and Elizabeth is my charming friend from TU who is studying in Barcelona for the semester.  She is quite the excellent tour guide and led us around the city.  We saw everything from a giant park that looks like Candy Land  (really!) to beautiful churches to a wonderful market with brilliantly colored fruits and vegetables and sheep heads and cow stomachs and piles of candy and little dried unidentifiable objects.  We also made our way down to the port, where of course I got some juggling action in:

 

Even just walking down the street was an adventure.  There were palm trees growing out of the middle of the sidewalk, chicks and ducks and rabbits in cages for sale, tropical-colored buildings, street performers, beautiful brown-eyed Barcelonean babies, and-- my personal favorite-- when the hills got too steep, there were escalators to help you out.  Awesome.  Unfortunately, the escalators where nowhere to be found on Friday when Nikki and I decided to tackle a nearby mountain (hill?) when Elizabeth was in class.  It ended up being a beautiful walk, though, with this view from a park along the way.

YES.  But somewhere among the tapas, chupito bar, beachside clubs, paella, "hot chocolate" (by which I literally mean "chocolate bar melted in a mug," AHHH), Metro rides, finding out via Spanish facebook that my brother is engaged (!!!), bizarre German hostel roommates, and other such Espanish adventures, we ran out of Barcelona-exploring-time and it was time to haul our buns to Madrid!  

And who else was waiting for me in Madrid than...

EMILY!!!  My media naranja.  We rejoiced, obviously.  And probably obnoxiously, but I couldn't help it.  Despite our overwhelming desire to top off a day that had already included a mountain-climbing and a plane-riding with a Spanish-style all-nighter at the clubs, we instead pooled our money for sustenance (read: almost entirely cookies) at the grocery store next to the hostel.  And the rest of our night looked like this:

 

Chomp chomp chomp blah blah blah.  It was perfect.  The next day was full of touristically responsible sightseeing-- the royal palace (through the bars, of course, seeing as how we didn't want to pay), the Almudena Cathedral ("an uncertain hybrid styles," the guidebook said.  "Weeeeird," we said), and lots of Goya paintings at the art museum.  Fully making up for our previous night in, we also fully (mm-hmm) embraced the Madrid clubbing-till-the-morning spirit.  It may or may not have been a good choice.

The next day was the most perfect day of the whole trip, though.  We went to the Parque del Retiro, which is the most lovely place I have ever seen.  Passing a darling man playing the accordion, we climbed up the steps into a park pathway flanked by trees that looked like giant pieces of broccoli.  The park is HUGE and was filled with jugglers, bikers, tarot card readers, rollerbladers, popcorn booths, street vendors, dancers, clowns, and bands that were positively getting their groove on in the most wonderful way I have ever seen.  We were standing around watching this great combo play "When The Saints Go Marching In" when a little girl escaped from the crowd, and, wrapped up in her little striped hat and puffy pink coat, stood in front of the band and pretended to play the guitar and danced with the clarinetist.  My heart promptly exploded.  

We spent the better part of the afternoon walking and juggling and people-watching there, finally ending up on these big steps that look out onto the little pond where wonderfully European couples were rowing around in little boats and exhibiting impressive amounts of PDA (often simultaneously) (I think it's mandatory in Spain).  When we finally tore ourselves away, we shed a few tears and decided to cheer ourselves up with CHURROS AND CHOCOLATE.  Which is, by the way, the most delicious thing.  EVER. 

A final goodbye to the Euro-mulleted hostel owners was followed by a final trip to the Metro station, where a shabby man sat on a folding chair and played 'O Sole Mio on his violin before we said our adioses to Miss Emily.  And then a red-eye flight to Barcelona was followed by another sad goodbye to Elizabeth, which was followed by a grrrrrreat night on the airport floor, which followed a 4 a.m. wake-up call, a flight back to Vienna, and-- surprise!-- the first day of real classes.  It was a little bit of a long day.  But it is so very good to be back and to shower without flip flops and to not wear the same socks for the fourth day in a row (I guess I miscounted when I was packing.  Whoops).  

I don't have anything else to say.  The end!  You can look at the rest of my pictures here if you are so inclined.  Bye!  

Freedom Fries

Hallloooo! Bonjooooour! I am in France! The journey here was very exciting and involved taking a train from Vienna to Budpest (on which I got in trouble for accidentally sitting in first class, whoops), a plane from Budapest to Paris (on which I thought I was ordering an apple turnover and instead ended up with a lukewarm pastry filled with some bizarre ground meat salad, whoops), and finally a train from Paris to Bordeaux (on which I was seated next to a woman who decided it was a great idea to bring the meanest, smelliest, rhinestone-collar-wearing bulldog with her on the three hour trip, whoops). But at last I am here and I am terribly happy about it.

Mike lives in the most darling French flat with the most darling international roommates in the most darling neighborhood in all of the darling city of Bordeaux. (Side note: I am also easily charmed. Obviously.) One of my favorite parts of the apartment is the fireplace. Please be impressed by the sheer multitude of wine bottles it has collected:


Very French, no? Anyway, we have been having a wonderful time being very French for the past couple of days, so I've decided to compile a quick list of all these very French things I have done.

1. Visited important Bordeaux landmarks, like the cathedral and the bell tower and a museum or two. We climbed all 231 tiny, spiraling stone steps to the top of the bell tower and (after taking a moment to finish wheezing/stop being dizzy), enjoyed a wonderful view of Bordeaux:


2. Went to a lovely riverside market where merchants were selling baskets of fresh fruits and crates of stacked vegetables, sausages hanging on strings, crepes bubbling on skillets, shrimp and crawfish simmering away in giant cast-iron pans, big wicker baskets of bread, fresh cheeses piled on top of each other, whole fish laying open-eyed on ice, little plates of pastries... just in case we weren't charmed enough, they decided to go ahead and throw in a little man playing an accordion while gorgeous trench-coat-wearing French parents with their beautifully brown-eyed and overbundled children ambled by. I was disappointed not to see Madeleine and her twelve little boarding-school friends traipsing along in two straight lines.

3. Witnessed a student protest! Mike's classes have been conveniently canceled during my trip because the university students and teachers are striking against a new government policy about allowing teachers to conduct research alongside teaching their courses. On our way home from the store, we literally just stumbled across a huge group of tangly-haired, pea-coat wearing, freedom-loving French students waving their textbooks and cardboard signs in the air as they marched by chanting and hollering. It was quite revolutionary.


4. Went to the sweetest little antique shop in the whole wide world. I could have stayed there all afternoon-- it was tiny and narrow and just dripping with big, plastic baubles, pearls, gemstones, rosaries, and shelves stuffed with pocketknives and pipes and shoehorns, stacks and stacks of old dusty books, piles of yellowed postcards and prints and photos, baskets of little cloches and kid gloves and silk scarves, racks upon racks of fur coats and stoles... it was just wonderful.

5. Saw a woman walking a dog that was carrying the woman's umbrella in its mouth. I don't know if this is necessarily French, but it was so sweet and quaint I just had to tell you about it.

6. Went (speaking of sweet and quaint) to this little bakery in Hilary's neighborhood where there is an old grouchy mustached baker who makes these beautiful loaves of bread that are shaped like seahorses. No one else was impressed, and they insisted that we just buy baguettes instead, but I think they were the most beautiful things I have ever seen in my whole life. I didn't want to take a picture, though, because Monsieur Mustachio was so grumpy.

7. Had a wine and cheese party. I made Mike take this picture of me walking down the street after we went to the store because HELLO how French can you get? Baguettes? Check. Wine? Check. Cute little old building in the background? Check. Cobblestone street? I know you can't see it, but check. I don't know how much more French you can get without wearing a beret and speaking French (both of which I have so far failed to do. But there's still time!)


8. Greeted people by kissing them on both cheeks. YES! I mean OUI!

Anyway, hopefully I can go out and buy a striped shirt and a little red neck scarf before I leave tomorrow, but even if I fail I would say this has been quite the successful sojourn to Bordeaux and I will be sad to leave. Luckily my next arrival is Barcelona, so hopefully I will get to update you with some Spanish adventures soon. Bissoux!